Perfect
by ibshafer
Summary: REPOST of the one-shots "Past Perfect," "Future  Im Perfect," and "Present Perfect," now a continuing series... In which Kurt discovers that kissing Blaine Anderson isn't all that and kissing Dave Karofsky, apparently, IS...  Future chapts will be M
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a _repost_ for a series of one-shots that were never meant to be a series, but ended up being one anyway… Someone suggested I do this and I'd been thinking about it anyway, so... Apologies if you've already read these – just wanted to have them all together and…and as an _**added bonus**_, I'm going to give you the starts of the next two chapters. I'm working on them simultaneously – _I'm freaky like that… _[To David_of_Oz _– thanks for the kick in the butt!_]

_**Also!**_ I wanted to thank you guys for embracing this "series" and for making me feel so loved with your comments and hits. (And on livejournal where the stories have done very, very well.) I truly do appreciate your comments and reviews and you have to know that I write to entertain or amuse or make people think and feel. When I hear from you, I know I did it right. Thank you for that. And for asking me to continue this. It's be enormous fun to write and I look forward to the new chapters.

Thx! _~ibshafer_


	2. Chapter 2

**Story: **Past Perfect

**Fandom: **Glee  
**Author:** ibshafer  
**Rating:** R (language, sexual situations)  
**Character:** Kurt/Blaine and yes, Dave…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.

**Summary: **Kurt thinks it's _his_ turn when he brings Blaine back to his house after Rachel's party, but they may not be entirely alone…

**Warning:** Up to 2x14

Past Perfect

_- ibshafer_

Kurt didn't think he'd ever seen anything so perfect.

Even reeking of alcohol, with Rachel Berry's disastrously red lip gloss smeared over the lower third of his face (_what was wrong with that girl? she kissed like a piranha!_), Blaine was still the most beautiful thing Kurt had ever seen.

In spite of the alcohol and the lipstick.

In spite of the fact that he'd spent a good portion of the party attached-at-the-lip to their hostess.

No, because at _this very moment_, that perfect face (lips, hair, _adorable_ eyebrows) was resting on Kurt's 100% Egyptian cotton sheets, in his brand new perfect white bedroom, blitzed out of his mind and, how should he put it, _open to suggestions?_

Kurt was the master of subtle manipulations. Heck, he was the master of the more dramatic variety, too. But tonight, thanks to Rachel Berry's dads' copiously stocked liquor cabinet, he was thinking he could skip the manipulations _entirely_, well, the _verbal kind_, anyway, and go right for the gold, as it were.

Since Blaine (with the aid of distilled spirits, mind you), seemed to respond to readily to the application of warm and mobile lips to his own, why not see if Kurt could get as lucky as that confused girl clearly did.

He felt a momentary twinge at the thought of stealing something, even a kiss, that had not be knowingly offered to him, but he sighed it away, believing that many a great gay love story had begun just this way: friends sharing a bed after a drunken binge, then a kiss, then…whatever _joys_ may follow…

He could look at that perfect profile all night long, and he desperately wanted to wind his fingers into those frantic curls, but he was eager to cross that line, the line between innocent friends and caring lovers, and he knew that if he just kissed Blaine, Blaine would _know_ that – would feel it _immediately_, would know they were _meant_ to be together.

Levering himself up on his elbow, he leaned over the still sleeping, still _smiling_ Blaine, avidly taking in his up-close face for the first time, hovered over those full lips for the briefest second, then pressed his own to Blaine's.

At first, there was no reaction from the drunken Blaine, but then Kurt felt his lips curve into a smile, a sigh, and begin to move against his own. He thought he might swoon then, but he held on, overjoyed that his experiment was working. Blaine was rousing himself, mouth moving against Kurt's easily, enthusiastically, and Kurt rejoiced, feeling in his heart that _this _was his first real kiss, not that _other_…_stolen_…aberration; that _attack_. But even as Blaine moved to deepen the kiss, even as he slipped his fingers into Kurt's hair, hands cradling Kurt's face, Kurt could feel the color, the _life_, fading from it.

He may not have had a wealth of experience to draw from, but he had an encyclopedic knowledge of, well, available…_material_, both mainstream (Hollywood love stories) and underground (Tampa, Florida's gay porn industry…) and he knew how to recognize when a kiss was passionate – and when it was _rote_; uninspired.

This was not a kiss of knowing, a kiss for _Kurt alone_, it was a kiss for _anyone_, a kiss like any other.

He had a sudden flash, of the press of frantic fingers against his scalp, of the passion and longing of desperate lips against his, of harsh breathing and the sound of sweet surrender in the back of a throat not his own.

_Karofsky._

As though struck by lighting, he pulled away, gasping for air.

_Fucking Karofsky!_

Had that closeted asshole, the King of D-Nile, scarred him, _ruined_ all other kisses for him?

Blaine's eyes were still closed, but his smile persisted though confusion lines pinched between his brows. _"Rachel?"_ he murmured, clearly still asleep.

Kurt felt the bile rise in him and he threw himself off the bed, stumbling into his freshly painted bathroom to anoint his new, carefully chosen toilet. (color - _'Innocent Blush'_)

_What happened to perfect?_

What happened to the perfect _plan_? Blaine was drunk, willing, _there_. All Kurt had to do was _show_ him they were perfect _together_, show him how well they _fit_ together.

But something in that kiss had been _missing_; depth, heart, soul, _passion_.

_God fucking damn you, Dave Karofsky!_

It made Kurt sick to think of it, but somehow he doubted _Karofsky_ would have wavered, would have called someone else's name when he was _right there_. Karofsky wouldn't have been _asleep_.

Karofsky may have been in denial, so deep in the closet he was practically in the next _room_, but Kurt had never doubted that he'd done, that day, what was deep in his heart to do.

_That's_ why he hadn't revealed Karofsky's secret, why he hadn't told _everyone _what was behind the big asshole's attacks on him, even though it would have made it all go away, even though it would have turned it all around on Karofsky.

Sick, twisted, angry, dangerous, but Kurt knew how Karofsky felt about him.

Locked deep inside, but released when Kurt's badgering tongue cracked the lock.

Flushing, he splashed some water on his face, wiped the corner of his mouth with a washcloth, and stepped back into the bedroom.

Blaine was curled on his side now, clutching Kurt's pillow with this ridiculously dopey grin on his face, Rachel's lip gloss still smeared around his mouth.

Kurt didn't know _what_ was perfect anymore.

He just knew it wasn't here…

3


	3. Chapter 3

**Story: **Future (Im)Perfect

**Fandom: **Glee  
**Author:** ibshafer  
**Rating:** R (language, sexual situations)  
**Character:** Kurt/Dave…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.

**Summary: **Sequel to "Past Perfect" in which Kurt discovers that kissing Blaine might not be as perfect as he'd imagined, and that kissing might just have been ruined for him that closeted gay asshole, Dave Karofsky; taking a page from Rachel Berry and her Totally-Sober Blaine Experiment, Kurt decides to test out a theory…

**Warning:** Up to 2x14

Future (Im)Perfect

_- ibshafer_

Two weeks and he hadn't been able to get the idea out of his head.

_Damn that asshole!_

Clutching the steering wheel like it had just insulted him, Kurt grit his teeth, trying to keep his mind off of what he had _convinced_ himself he hadto do.

If he hadn't gone to that damned party, he would have been sipping an expensive coffee beverage right now, secure in his happy delusionary dream, instead of driving to what was very likely to be his _doom_.

_But he had to know…_

He had _thought_ that fortune had smiled on him that night; he would finally get his opportunity to show a compliant (and, okay, _sleeping_) Blaine that he, _Kurt_, was what Blaine needed; not some silly girl in a 70's nightmare dress, not some ridiculously tall doe-eyed, closeted retail clerk who clearly spent _hours _on his overtly tousled and "casual" style. No, it was he, _Kurt_, who was Blaine's true match in every way; _he_ who was Blaine's gay equal.

And that propitious, and hopefully _scandalous_, undertaking was serendipitously made possible by the seemingly unrelated departure of Rachel Berry's _dads_ on a week long Rosie O'Donnell Cruise to Nowhere.

He'd actually come to _enjoy_ Rachel's company. She was as determinedly self-involved as he was and somehow he could respect that; they'd reached a point in their friendship where they acknowledged and applauded each other's talents. Yet the notion of a party at Rachel's house seemed ill-conceived and destined for failure. In small groups, Rachel could be tolerable and even fun, but in larger groups, her inner-Streisand came out (read: _control freak_) and she just couldn't _help_ herself, which was sure to drive people for the exits. Still, the prospect of booze, (not for _himself_, mind you; he couldn't chance the loss of control – over his wardrobe, over his behavior, over his…bodily functions), and its effect on Blaine, who he suspected (quite rightly, it turned out) to be a sloppy drunk, was not something he could pass up. He saw the opportunity to play his recently acquired _TeenGirlsandTheirDaddies dot com_ card with a suitably mortified, terminally blushing Finn and the rest, as they say, was _easy_…

The party had been borderline excruciating, rendered only just shy of it by the _de_-gelled, _de_-uniformed, stumbling, _adorably _giddy _mess_ that wasa drunken Blaine Anderson. And _then_ little Miss South Forks had spun that empty wine cooler bottle and it had landed on _His Man_…

Btw, how was it the Fates had determined that his spin should land on Brittany, who, hey, he'd _kissed_ before and who _also_, hey, was a _girl? _Why couldn't _he_ have gotten Blaine or, failing that, the luscious gourami-mouthed wonder that was Sam Evans, who, let's face it, had Blaine – and Santana – not been there, he would have been _all _over, because, _hey_, he still said that boy was too blond and too coiffed to be _straight_…

But no, Rachel had promised to rock Blaine Warbler's world and for the rest of the night, it had pretty much looked like she had.

How he ended up a third wheel when he was actually one _half_ of that particular bicycle, he did not know, but when he finally peeled Miss Thang off of Blaine – they were mashing their monikers together into cute little pet names for each other – he'd needed Finn's none-too-thrilled help to haul Blaine up the stairs and stuff him, hollering, into the back of the car. (_"Raine-Raine! Your Anderberry misses you!"_)

Blaine had fallen asleep crooning an old Beatle's tune, (_"Something in the way SHE moves, attracts me like NO OTHER lover…"_) – even without alcohol, Kurt had had to stifle the urge to vomit – and was quietly whimpering as Finn carried his disheveled, Rachel-free self up to Kurt's bedroom. Finn had given him the evil eye as he'd closed the door, no doubt fully aware of Kurt's intentions (_and_ his own inadvertent complicity – _Burt was going to kill them __**both**__…_) and Kurt once again thanked his lucky stars that he'd decided to check Finn's browsing history...

All went according to plan after that and Kurt had every reason to believe that this would end well – for both of them. Blaine was drunk, horny, and in his bed, and after observing them in action all night, Kurt knew he was a _way _better kisser than Rachel was. (From his brief tongue-tangling with Brittany last year, he'd learned more than just how _very_ gay he was, he'd learned how to _kiss_…)

But it was the kiss itself that _un_sealed what he'd thought was already a sealed deal. (_Blaine was in his __**bed, **__for cryin' out loud!_) He had no doubt that Blaine knew what to do with his lips and tongue when faced with the corresponding parts of another, from the sounds La Berry was making tonight, he might even have known a bit more than her _ex_-kissing partner, Finn, but when Blaine's corresponding parts met Kurt's oh, so _eager_ corresponding parts? _Not so much…_

Mind you, it wasn't a _bad_ kiss and had Blaine actually been _awake_ and, Kurt twinged with guilt for a moment, had he been _complicit_, he _might _have been more…_involved_, but…but _something_ was clearly missing from their oral coupling here and _consciousness_ wasn't the only thing.

_What's the opposite of fireworks?_

As he struggled vainly to _make _that kiss feel like more than it was, a portion of his brain that was clearly destined for _dementia_ spit out a full-sensory memory that shook him to his core and left him gasping for air.

_Karofsky…_

Angry, self-hating, _Kurt_-hating, driven, desperate, powerful, focused, _passionate_; fingers in his hair, tongue at his lips and beyond, rushing at him with the force of what felt like one mean _ton_ of pent-up longing and desire.

And he'd moaned. _Moaned…_

It was a tiny sound, one that escaped from the back of the big jock's throat, but that barely audible sound of pleasure, desire, and _surrender_ had said almost as much as the sloppy, overwhelming kiss did.

No matter that they'd been yelling at each other mere seconds before. No matter that Karofsky had almost literally been _up his butt_ for months. (In retrospect, the irony had not amused Kurt in the least…) No matter (well, _yes, _matter, but for the purposes of comparison, _no matter_) that Karofsky had gone out of his way to make Kurt's life a literal living Hell.

_That kiss was what it had all been about. _

Here he had the guy of his gay dreams literally _at his finger tips_, a guy who would very likely _thank him_ in the morning for opening his eyes to the catch that Kurt was, and all Kurt could think about was how hard he was having to work to convince said guy that he was what he needed.

The Asshole known as Karofsky, though in denial about his true nature to the Nth degree, seemed to have no question about who _he _should be kissing.

That one thought _sickened_ Kurt, but it also frightened him to think that that asshole wanted him more than the Perfect Gay Boy did.

Taking a page from Rachel Berry's _How Will I Know? _book, though he was quite certain he would live to regret it, he decided that he needed to find out if that was true.

And he needed to do it while he was in a state of mind to compare, to _double-check; _not blindsided as he had been, surprised as all hell when his bully attached to Kurt's lips, driving all thought and reason from his head. Heneeded to _know_ it was coming – so he could be prepared and properly process it.

And so he was cutting his later classes today (_get over it! he was a straight-A student and he'd never skipped a class in his life!_) and driving his trepidatious arse over to McKinnley to…to…

_Oh, fuck! I'm here…_

He hadn't given it much thought beforehand and now he just barreled down the hallway, amidst cries of _"Was that…?"_, _"Hummel's back and on a mission!",_ and _"Kurt, what are you doing here? Wait!"_ (this last from Mercedes), until he got to the locker room. Spotting his target against a bank of lockers, he growled a commanding _"Get out!"_ to the two other boys he found there (they were so stunned at Kurt's presence and his countenance, they complied without argument), and then he cornered the half-undressed Karofsky just as he was turning to see what the hell was going on…

Grabbing the ends of the damp towel that was draped around the big jock's neck, Kurt pulled Karofsky to him and before he could even get a word out, Kurt was kissing him with all the force his smaller frame could muster, which, for someone as passionate as Kurt, was considerable.

Maybe it was the shock of it, maybe he'd been hit in the head too hard a couple times that afternoon, but the King of D-Nile didn't try to get away. His lips seemed to accept Kurt's much softer ones without hesitation, though maybe that was the head injury talking, and when Kurt, breathless in his intent, still focused on his _experiment_, mind you, moved to deepen the kiss, Karofsky responded with the tiniest sound of surrender, slipping his fingers into Kurt's hair and holding on for dear life.

_Dear life_ was what was running through Kurt's scrambled head, as well, because he was fairly certain that had the big jock not be so committed to clutching Kurt's head fast to his own, Kurt's _knees_, which were currently contemplating turning to _Jell-o_, would have _failed_ him and he would most definitely have been on the floor. So desperate was he to _not_ do this that when Karofsky pulled away for a second, ostensibly for _air_, Kurt yanked the towel harder, forcing their mouths (and his and Karofsky's bare, not-so-pudgy chest) together again – clearly, _clearly_ for support.

This fast, furious, _needful_ coming together, _yes_, with one member not complicit or forewarned (as a sleeping, drunken Blaine had not been), was so vastly different from that colorless, muzzy experience two weeks ago in his bed, they could hardly be compared as the same act.

_Fuck!_

Kurt was so pissed he could hardly breathe. (Though it might have been from Karofsky's tongue in his mouth…)

This was what he'd come here to find out, but this was notwhat he'd _wanted_ to find out.

Wrenching himself away from the big jock, vaguely aware that Karofsky's nipples had been rock hard and pressing into his upper chest and suddenly very angry at himself for _noticing_ that, he dropped the towel, pushed Karofsky back against the lockers with all the anger he could muster, which was considerable at his point, fixed that shocked and breathless face with what he hoped was a stony, icy glare, and spun on his heel.

"_Fuck you, Karofsky!"_ he growled over his shoulder, not even looking to see if he was being followed.

He heard a rumbling, "Hummel? _Kurt? Wait!_" follow him out into the hallway, but he was out the door, fumbling his door open, and roaring from the parking lot before the big idiot could make it out the door. (He could see him, struggling into a t-shirt, bumbling down the school steps.)

He had no idea what he was going to do now, and _damn_, he must have gained weight because his pants were really feeling uncomfortably _tight_, he just knew he could _never_ again go back to McKinley, no matter what.

_Nope, not gonna happen._

_Blaine_ was his perfect gay foil, the epitome of the sensitive and knowing gay lover, ill-advised and reconsidered forays into bisexuality aside, and Kurt would not let himself believe that that closeted asshole with his ridiculous wardrobe and Byzantine attitudes, could possibly mean more to him, …um, _do_ more for him. _In that way._

_He just couldn't._

He'd be _celibate_ before he'd give in to that.

Crap, he'd be _straight!_

Because fireworks or no, he was _not _giving in…

5


	4. Chapter 4

**Story: **Present Perfect

**Fandom: **Glee  
**Author:** ibshafer  
**Rating:** R (language, sexual situations)  
**Character:** Kurt/Dave…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.

**Summary: **Sequel to "Past Perfect" in which Kurt discovers that kissing Blaine might not be as perfect as he'd imagined, and "Future (Im)Perfect" in which he learns that kissing Dave Karofsky is, apparently, all that _and_ a bag of chips, and then some, and he is _plenty_ pissed off about it…And now, _the_ _experiment continues_…

**Warning:** Up to 2x14

**A/N:** The is, above all else, a _Kurtofsky_ fic, so I ask that you _go with it _and just ignore actions that run counter to, say, the serious nature of just how horribly Dave treated Kurt (actions that I neither condone nor excuse); in this Kurtofskian worldview, it was always about love (and chemistry) and Dave was always a better person than he appeared to be on the surface. Also, in this particular 'verse, I'm going for laffs because, well, it's _fun…_

**A/N#2:** This started out as a 'one-shot,' that called for a 'second shot' (_after many, many requests –_ _thx!_), that lead naturally to a 'triple-shot,' that now, appears to be, basically _a series of one-shots. ;)_ If y'all are still feelin' it after this one and I'm still feelin' like there's more story to tell, I'm just gonna give up and admit I'm writing a series _and keep going… [To everyone who has commented - __**thx for the lov'n, you guys!**__ ~ibs]_

Present Perfect

_- ibshafer_

They say you have to kiss a lot of frogs.

It had been a month and Kurt had the chapped lips to prove it...

In spite of the slight tarnishing it had brought to his polished, pristine, _sterling_, reputation, Kurt had been _more _than happy when he realized, was in fact quite _relieved_ to realize, that for all his sixteen years, for all his worldliness and _innate_ sense of style, for all his understanding of the inner-workings of the minds of teenaged boys, he, Kurt, simply did not have a enough personal, directly applicable_ experience_ from which to draw a reasonable conclusion…

In other words, he hadn't _kissed_ enough frogs.

_Not enough to know._

To know whether the Jello-kneed, fireworks-inducing, breathless, brainless, batshit _heart-hammering_ reaction he'd felt when he'd stormed into the locker room, grabbed that loser by the towel and _kissed_ him, was a response to some chemical directive, a cosmic _decree_ (more like a cosmic _joke!_), or simply, say, just what happened when Kurt Hummel kissed somehow who was, say, four inches taller than himself, at, oh, say, 1:23 in the afternoon. On a Tuesday. In February.

Because_ seriously…_

_Karofsky?_

_Dave Karofsky?_

How could that be possible?

Did the Big Man, if he _believed_ in a Big Man, that is, really have that big a sense of humor?

Either Kurt accepted it, dealt with it, and _steered clear_ of the big ape for the rest of his natural life…

…or he attempted to find out if it were really true.

While others would come to think of what followed as Kurt's inexplicable and _temporary_ descent into Dalton Academy slutdom, had they been paying closer attention they might have noticed the clip board and checklist that accompanied his hallway/classroom/choir room kissing_ ambushes_, accoutrements that clearly designated his lip-chapping forays as _research_.

'_Seriously,' _he'd thought, returning yet another vase of clichéd roses, turning down yet another "hot" Saturday night date._ 'Did no one notice I was going in alphabetical order?_

Since the Dalton student body was a veritable cornucopia of attractive gay boys, Kurt had had his work cut out for him with his simple compare/contrast study and while he wouldn't lie, it had had its…stimulating moments, he was searching for something _else_, something that as each day passed proved to be more and more elusive.

He even, for the sake of science, revisited some of his past research, though to be fair, that particular experiment pre-dated the actual study. He was quite saddened by the confirmation this test resulted in, though; he had given it the old _'__**this**__ time the bells will ring'_ college try, but, sadly, not only were there no bells ringing, he may have lost himself a friend…

'"_What __**is **__it with you New Directions kids,"' _Blaine had spat, mouth turned down in a very unattractive grimace as he roughly pushed Kurt away. _'"First Rachel, who at least had a reason for it, and now __**you**__?"'_

Kurt didn't know whether to be grateful that Blaine had been too drunk that night to remember spending it in Kurt's bed (_and that Kurt had tried to seduce him_) or _very_ deeply wounded; Blaine remembered making out with Time Travel Barbie, but apparently, sharing a bed with a beautiful boy whom he _'cared for very deeply'_ wasn't a memory-making event…

As the research continued, Kurt became desperate to find some other explanation for his _response_ to that…that aberration in the McKinley locker room, to the way he lost rational thought and the way his body betrayed what his mind had become _committed_ to believing – that _Karofsky was the Antichrist. _(Again, not that Kurt was a Believer; _'antichrist'_ was just the worst pejorative he could come up with short of calling him _'Hitler in a Letterman Jacket'_ which, frankly, just took too long to say…)

_Was _it just an anomaly? Had all the hormonal planets just aligned at that particular time? Had it just been some _random_ hard-on?

Kurt actually liked that last possibility rather a lot.

_Random. Riiight…_

In his heart, he knew he would have to test that theory out and that doing so might just be dangerous and render some cherished garment unwearable or worse yet, forever alter the sheer perfection that was his profile, but he clearly had no choice. If he had confirmed that Blaine Anderson, sadly, _wasn't _a bell-ringer, he at least had to, (_'deep breath, hold onto your lunch, Kurt'_), confirm that Dave Karofsky, son of the Dark Lord Hades, _was…_

He couldn't believe he was doing this.

_Again_.

Cutting classes and risking an A- was the least of his worries at this point. If he wasn't on point with his approach to the behemoth, ready with metaphorical whip and chair to Karofsky's boy-eating lion, this could end very, very badly for him. Pushing his GPA out of his mind, he focused on working himself up into a good _mad_.

That magical combination of _pissed-off_ and _**more**__-pissed-off_ had really powered him through their last encounter, given him an upper hand he might not have had even _with _the element of surprise. Karofsky still had height and considerable lardy bulk on him (and here, Kurt _'la-la-la-I-can't-hear-you'_d through the memory of how actually _not _lardy Karofsky had been when he'd been pressed up tight against him), and if Kurt was going to pull this latest experiment off successfully, he was going to have to overpower Karofsky in _some _way. If there was _any_thing Kurt had an upper hand at it was at being loud and bitchy. _'Loud'_ and _'bitchy'_ were quite the winning combo in nearly any fight, but in this case, redirecting whatever misplaced, confused _passion_ his body might throw into the mix into _hatin' on_ Karofsky could only work _for_ him…

And, heck, if he ended up with _another_ hard-on, well, that would only piss him off _more…_

Squealing into a serendipitously empty parking space close to the building – if he'd had to stalk his way over from the far lot he might have lost some steam on the way – he charged up the school steps, cast a quick glance at his watch (it was twenty minutes after one, _again_, but at least it wasn't Tuesday), and stomped into the locker room, surprising the same pair of boys who _jumped_ when they saw him and bolted past him out the door not even waiting to be told this time. Drawing power from the satisfaction of having…well, _okay,_ of having _terrorized_ a pair of innocent freshmen he would now have to go find and _apologize_ to, it took Kurt a moment to realize he was actually _alone _in the locker room.

Kurt had never dealt with frustration well and at this stage of his…oh, fuck, even _he _couldn't call it research anymore, his…his _search for bells_, he just hadn't been prepared to drive all the way over here and _not _find that behemoth waiting for him in the locker room.

He _had _to be here! Wasn't this where he_ lived?_

Kicking the nearest locker with the full force of his frustration, he let loose a guttural wail, and growled out the source of his frustration.

"_**KAROFSKY!"**_

As luck would have it (luck?), said source was just coming of the showers, a towel once again draped around his broad shoulders and one also wrapped in a most _dastardly_ fashion around his waist.

They saw each other at the same time, or rather, Dave saw Kurt a split second earlier and was unable to stifle the knee-jerk _"oh, fuck,"_ that escaped his lips, thus drawing Kurt's attention to him before he could retreat back into the relative safety of the showers…

"_**GREAT,"**_ Kurt shouted, sounding not at all like he thought it was. "_**THERE**_ you are!"

Karofsky looked like he didn't know what to do with himself, though he seemed a little preoccupied with his towel, which, well, wasn't very big…

"So, what – you're _stalking_ me now," he growled, trying his best to looking intimidating in spite of being mostly naked.

"Oh_, please_," Kurt huffed, but giving it a millisecond's thought, he knew that's how it looked. Giving it the rest of that second's thought, he was _embarrassed_, but was too pumped from his stalk in from the parking lot and his frustrated growling a moment ago, the latter of which he was fairly certain he'd never done before, to care if it looked like he was stalking his bully or not. Seriously, would anyone _blame_ him?

He was running on adrenaline now, not thinking as clearly as he would have if, well, if he'd been talking to anyone _else_, but if he was going to do this, he was damn well going to _do _it.

_Just __**do**__ it quickly – like a Band-aid!_

He was trying to convince himself that _this_ wasn't a foregone conclusion, that he could get _this_ over with quickly, prove the theory wrong (_'Please?'_) and be on his merry way, free to find Blaine and force _that_ to work, but every second he hesitated, he noticed _more and more__ things_and they were the _kinds_ of things that wreaked _havoc_ with his resolve: the way random water droplets ran down the Neanderthal's surprisingly solid chest; the way the flush from his cheeks ran down his powerful-looking neck and made that solid chest _glow_; the way that tiny towel so inadequately covered Karofsky's aptly named "junk."

Kurt was at an impasse, his fight-or-flight mechanisms sending conflicting messages to his feet and hands; unable to stand still, unwilling to _move_, Kurt kicked the nearest locker with all his might.

"_Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"_

Karofsky flinched, unsettling the towel as he did so, fumbling fingers pulling it tighter around his waist.

"_Jesus_, Hummel. Skip your Ritalin today?" The words were pure Karofsky, but the tone and the full-body flush said that Karofsky knew he was at a disadvantage. He looked like he desperately wanted to dress and get the hell outta Dodge, but was too afraid to move; fear for his 'junk' not withstanding, after Kurt's sneak attack a month ago, Karofsky had to be wondering why Kurt was back again…

_What __**am**__ I doing? This is crazy!_

He didn't know _what_ he wanted anymore. What was the point of this experiment again?

Was he hoping that when he kissed Karofsky today it would be different; he'd kiss the frog and it would _stay _a frog?

Or was there something in him that _wanted _to feel that…_that way_ again?

Kurt was many things, things often in conflict with each other – dreamer, realist, obsessive/compulsive, pragmatist – but the backdrop against which all these other traits were set? Romantic. _Kurt was a_ _romantic_. It was the OCD in him that wanted things perfect – the perfect moment, the perfect setting, the perfect boyfriend – but in the all-singing, all-dancing center of his heart – _Kurt yearned for passion_.

He wanted fireworks.

Bells ringing.

Jell-o knees.

But did he want that so badly he would risk life, limb, and a broken nose (or arm) to get it?

He was 17 years old. Wasn't he just too young to be yearning for that kind of passion?

So _what_ if Karofsky's lips were the best thing since oil-free moisturizer and made Blaine Warbler's seem but cold copies by comparison? So what if those big hands of his made you feel like you were being held fast _for a reason _as opposed to being held at a distance? So what if when Karofsky finally stopped _back-pedaling_ he was more _in that exact moment_ than anyone else Kurt had ever known, _including_ Blaine?

And so _what_ if Kurt could feel his knees getting weak _all the way across the room? _

Of course, Karofsky was getting _none_ of the benefit of all this reflective internal monologue; he looked like he was about to bolt, potentially exposed junk be damned.

"You're really starting to freak me out, Hummel. W-what the fuck are you _doing _here?" Karofsky's voice broke, the sound _breaking_ Kurt's inner impasse, re-routing the current from his useless brain, down to his feet, advancing him a step toward Karofsky.

"I think you _know_ why I'm here, Karofsky." Kurt's voice was as low as he could muster, managing to sound dead serious despite its supernaturally high timbre, perhaps more so _because_ of it.

"No…no, I _don't, _Hummel," he said vehemently and Kurt had no doubt Karofsky wanted to believe that.

_That's all right. You can hang on to that delusion for a little longer…_

"Look, I _saw _you, Karofsky," Kurt said, mind's eye running through the vision of that big body, shaking in his rear view mirror, simultaneously waving frantically, struggling into a shirt, and stumbling down the stairs. "I know what _pissed-off_ looks like on that big, dumb face of yours and that is _not _what it looked like that day."

"And what day is that, Hummel?" It was an attempt at nonchalance, but being half-naked, bright red, and backed up against the wall, as it were, he just ended up looking like the _scared little boy_ he was.

It was almost endearing, _heartbreaking_, really, and because of it, and the affect it was having on Kurt's Mad, which was softening now at the edges, Kurt dialed back his tone.

What would have been shouted – shock value to aid that repeat kiss - was instead said in an almost whisper.

"_The day I burst in here and kissed you."_

Forehead creasing, Karofsky started shaking his head, clearly not sure what to do with himself. "So, _what_ – you-you think because I ran after you that I _wanted _you to," he glanced to the hallway exit, his voice pinching off to a whisper as his head dipped lower. "…to _kiss_ me."

_Yes, that's exactly what I think…_

Kurt had never been more sure of anything in his life.

"_No_, David," Kurt said softly, a calm certainty overtaking him. "I _knew_ it from the way you _held on to me_, your hands on my face and your fingers in my hair." Eyes still fixed to Karofsky's, he took a step closer. "I knew it from that little sound you made in the _back of your throat_." Another step. "I knew it from the way you slipped your _tongue _into my mouth and the way you _whimpered_ when I touched it with mine." He was aware that his face was blazing as he took the last step. "And I knew it from the way your heart was hammering in your chest…because it was hammering as hard as _mine _was."

Karofsky was dead silent, eyes not wavering from Kurt's for a single moment, and as Kurt moved closer, the air between them hummed.

All at once, it was as if some epiphany were taking place inside David, his pinched face relaxing, worry leeching away into the air; _Karofsky had stopped back-pedaling… _His calm and certainty seemed to direct him as he closed the gap between them; nodding almost imperceptibly, he took the lapels of Kurt's Dalton blazer and he drew Kurt to him.

Neither was surprised and nothing was stolen this time, but it was _no less passionate_.

It was the first time they had both knowingly, _willingly_ done this – no sneak attacks, no surprises, no _resistance_ – and their combined _want _made for a breathless display. Dave moaned in surrender as Kurt grabbed his face, slipping his fingers into Dave's hair, curls soft and still damp, lips leaving frantic kisses on David's open mouth, his jaw line, his bared throat. With a keening sigh – of relief, of release, of sheer _joy_ – David slid his arms around Kurt's slender back, molding Kurt's body against his. Kurt felt himself enveloped by the heat of that big body, and the rhythm of Dave's heart, hammering like a piston against his ribcage, sped his own.

_Whoa…fireworks __**and**__ ringing bells…_

This was no generic Hollywood-screen kiss, no unisex, one-kiss-fits-all mashing together of lips on lips. This was something that could only exist _between them_, as improbable as it might have seemed, as much as they'd both denied it, fought it, struggled to forget it.

Once David crossed that line, allowed himself to _accept_ what he was feeling, he gave himself over completely to it; he _devoured_ Kurt, over swept him like the tide and all Kurt could do was hold on and try to match David, fury for fury. That it surpassed every other kiss in his research _including _their previous one, took Kurt quite by surprise. If he had thought himself ruined for all other kisses after David's first feverish attempt, how would he ever go on _now_?

It was everything all those others, mere _shadows _of kisses, _hadn't_ been.

David's lips and tongue were in constant, breathless motion; Kurt shivered as Dave's tongue traced the lines of his neck, his teeth gently pulling at Kurt's lower lip, his earlobe, the jut of his chin, and when Kurt thought he would melt, when he was aching for it, desperate for it, David's lips were on his again, the kiss so deep Kurt forgot to breathe.

Unbelievably, _endearingly_, it was _David's_ knees that gave way first.

Kurt felt him buckle, felt Dave shift against the lockers and tighten his arms around Kurt's back to steady himself, then use the wall of metal to guide them down. Kurt slid with him, partly to keep from breaking the kiss, partly because he had his own case of Jello-knees, until they were both kneeling, still holding on for dear life.

Panting, Dave pulled away.

"What…what are you _doing_ to me," he breathed, his forehead against Kurt's as they both fought for air.

"I could ask you the same question," Kurt responded, with only a hint of his usual snark. "I might also point out that you…" he broke off, punctuating the statement with a gentle poke at the bare skin of Dave's chest, "_started_ it that time wh—"

He didn't get to finish because Dave was kissing him again, hands to Kurt's face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones.

Sighing, Kurt leaned hard into him. He was on the verge of losing himself entirely to the sensation when certain _realities_ became painfully clear: David's towel seemed to be getting _smaller_…and someone could walk in on them at any moment.

Pulling away with an effort, a hand on that broad chest, he rested his forehead against Dave's again, panted, _"locker room!"_ then looked away quickly when he realized _where_ he was looking – and that he was _staring_.

_Whoa… _

David seemed to come back to himself all at once, a hand back on the towel, eyes to the locker room door, face redder than red.

"We should…" he whispered breathlessly.

"Y-yeah," Kurt finished for him. He stood shakily then with a hint of chivalry offered David a hand, which David, with surprising grace, took.

"_Later_…o-okay," David rasped out, turned abruptly back to his locker and rifling through its contents, ostensibly to retrieve his clothing, but Kurt noticed he kept pulling things out and putting them back in, as though he couldn't decide what he wanted to wear, which was ridiculous, because, well, one sports jersey pretty much looked like another, right? It wasn't until Dave accidentally brushed his hips against the locker door and noticeably winced, that Kurt remembered.

Kurt wanted to touch him – in sympathy, in guilty complicity (_'thank god for long sweaters!'_) – but didn't think that was the best idea. He'd either make it _worse_, or loose control and want to make it…um, _better_… This was neither the time nor the place for that.

Despite what Dalton Academy's gay population was no doubt thinking right now, Kurt wasn't actually that kind of boy anyway…

"Well, I'll…uh, I'll talk to you later, then," he said, as lightly as he could manage.

Dave nodded quickly without turning around and Kurt, now feeling like a total simp, played with the hem of his sweater a moment longer, then turned for the door.

"Okay, then… _Bye…_"

_Am I really getting all goopy over Dave Karofsky?_

He was almost out the door when Dave called after him.

"K-Kurt?"

The voice was so plaintive, it stopped Kurt dead in his tracks. He spun on his heel, barely suppressing the urge to grin like a fool.

He found Dave still turned away from him, but pivoted around on a surprisingly limber waist to look back towards him.

"_Uh-huh?"_

"I…um, if we're gonna _talk_ later…" He wide face was flushed again and there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

The affect was quite…_arresting_. Kurt realized he'd never actually _seen_ Dave Karofsky smile before – not when it didn't mean a slushie or a locker slam – and he shivered, awed by the effect it was having, not just on Dave's aura, but on his own.

"_Yes?" _Kurt prompted Dave to continue with his traditional raised eyebrows, but it was the giddy toe-bounce that was a dead give-away and he struggled to calm it down.

"…I kinda need your _phone_ number." The smile had escaped his mouth to crinkle the corners of his eyes, but he was clearly trying to rein it in. _Failing_, but trying, which was also utterly endearing.

_I can't believe this is the same person…_

Snagging a marker from the play board, Kurt grabbed Dave's hand and carefully wrote his number down, then, deciding that evil was _way_ more fun, he looked up sharply, caught Dave's eye, and bent to blow the ink on Dave's palm dry, grinning when he saw Dave swallow visibly.

With that, he was out the door and in the hallway.

_A spring in his step and a song in his heart…_

He laughed out loud.

_Dave Karofsky?_

_Really?_

And then he remembered the feeling of those strong hands in his hair, the heat of Dave's lips on his neck, the way the big jock shivered when Kurt ran his hands over Dave's smooth chest, and he laughed again.

_Really. _

_**Really**__-really._

In some tiny, more rational part of Kurt's brain, he knew he still had some heavy thinking ahead of him. At least _one _of his inner voices (he seemed to have several) seemed incapable of uttering the name _"Dave Karofsky"_ without slapping a question mark immediately after it, but for the time being, anyway, his _heart_ was in control and his heart was _singing_ (and telling the rest of him to shut the hell up) and what with the bells and the fireworks – and the _violins_ (_he wasn't expecting the strings section!_), he just couldn't focus on anything else.

And so Kurt's experiment had been a failure, but on the plus side, it would appear he had a _boyfriend_…

_?_

11


	5. Chapter 5

**Series:** Perfect (4/?) ***** TEASER 1 *****

**Story: **Present…_Tense _

**Fandom: **Glee  
**Author:** ibshafer  
**Rating:** NC-17 (solo flights at this point…)  
**Character:** Dave/Kurt…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.

**Summary: **"side shot" to the oneshots _"Past Perfect," "Future (Im)Perfect,"_ and _"Present Perfect,"_ in which Kurt comes to realize that Dave Karofsky could not be as passionate as he is and be the monster Kurt had believed… Takes place immediately after that last, great locker room kiss, this time from Dave's POV…

**Spoiler:** Up to 2x14

**Warning:** Angsty comedy/comedic angst and…um, masturbation…

***** TEASER 1 ***** (_Full story to follow when completed! This is just a thanks and an apology for the repost to get the one-shots in one place… thx! ~ibs_)

Present…_Tense _

_~by ibshafer_

In the end, it had taken him more than thirty minutes to get out of the locker room (he had thought he was ready to leave the bathroom….and then he um, _wasn't_…) and he was hoping that his civics teacher, Mrs. Gregory, wouldn't remember that he'd also skipped a class (for the…um, same reason) a month ago, as well. Like skipping a second time made the reason he'd skipped obvious. (_"Well, class, Mr. Karofsky couldn't be with us last Friday because he was jerking off in the locker room, so can anyone give him a summary of what he missed…?"_)

He was clearly, well beyond the point where he could deny, at least to himself, that he hadn't _wanted_ what had just happened to happen _with every fiber of his being._

[_'Fiber of his being'_ was one of those terms that his father always used and it always really confused Dave who just couldn't see how _bran flakes_ figured into one's _basic nature_, unless _not_ having them made your basic nature irregular and grouchy and then, like, you weren't happy, or something. Which still didn't make sense. And he'd be damned, but every single time he _used_ that friggin' phrase he was so _irritated_ by how little sense it made to him that it derailed him from his original thought…]

Which was…

_Hummel kissed him…_

Hummel…er, _Kurt_ kissed him.

No, _that_ wasn't right. They'd kissed each _other_.

_We kissed…_

Safe in his bedroom, Dave Karofsky blushed.

_I made out with Kurt Hummel in the locker room…_

Dave didn't _plan_ on kissing him. When he saw him standing there in the locker room again, cheeks blazing and nostrils flaring – well, and he also growled Dave's name which, _fuck_, he was ashamed to say went straight to dick… – he was remembering the _last _time he'd shown up there, grabbed him by the towel, and laid one on him. No one had ever kissed him like that before, not that he had a crap ton of experience, not with girls, _certainly_ not with guys. Nope, Hummel…er, _Kurt_, was his first homo…er, _gay_ kiss.

He'd _liked_ it.

In the darkness of his room, Dave's face flamed again.

Okay, _that _was a fucking understatement – if you could judge by the two, _almost_ three times he'd squeezed one out in that bathroom stall. He was so far beyond _like_ at this point, it hurt his brain and his stomach at the same time.

_Sigh…_

He sighed so _hard_, he practically _saw _the word float through his head when he did it.

There was no getting away from it…

_I'm gay…_

If gay meant that he wanted to kiss Hummel…er, Kurt again (_he did_), if it meant he wanted to tear Kurt's fussy clothes off and lick him all over (_he _so_ did_), if it meant he fell asleep thinking about what it would be like to be _inside _all that pretty and that he woke up the next morning _still_ thinking about that, then, yeah…_he was gay._

_~tbc…_

2


	6. Chapter 6

**Series****: **Perfect ***** TEASER 2 *****

**Story: **Simple Present (5/?)

**Fandom: **Glee  
**Author:** ibshafer  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Character:** Dave/Kurt…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.

**Summary: **After the first series of one shots, (named **Perfect** after the fact: _"Past Perfect," "Future (Im)Perfect,"_ and _"Present Perfect")_, picks up right afterwards following "Present…_Tense," _a series bridge told from Dave's POV…

***** TEASER 2 ***** (_Full story to follow when completed! This is just a thanks and an apology for the repost to get the one-shots in one place… thx! ~ibs_)

Simple Present

_~by ibshafer_

_Sigh…_

Kurt practically _said _the word _'sigh,' _he'd put so _much_ of his being into expelling that one frustrated breath. (Every _fiber _of his being, in fact…)

_Three days._

It had been three whole days…

He was beginning to wonder if he weren't just judgment impaired. Like, _terminally._ He _thought _he'd known how this was going to go, but if that were true, he wouldn't be sitting here in his bedroom, all alone, waiting for the phone to ring like a _girl…_

Pulling his feet up onto the window bench, he reclined back against the curved frame and curled the cover of the big, glossy magazine back on itself. Since he wasn't doing anything _else_, like talking on the phone _to his "boyfriend,"_ say, he might as well take this survey on "Your Emotional Health," whatever _that_ meant…

"#1: List your emotions:…"

Kurt tapped the felt tip on the page a few times before moving it to the empty line for #1.

_Confused, angry, __hurt__, horny…_

He stopped, scratched that last one out and made a face at the magazine; he refused to be horny! _Refused._

OK, back to the list.

_Confused, angry, hurt, guilty…_

Wait, what? _Guilty?_

Why should he feel guilty?

Well, okay, he _did_ ambush Karofsky, press his perfect boy lips against those manly ones and seriously, when he leaned into him, did Dave _really_ have stand a chance?

_Sigh…_

It had been three whole days and there had been no phone call. And he'd obsessively kept the thing plugged in – and had stayed in his room so he could babysit it. And bought extra batteries. That he also kept on the charger. Just in case.

No dice.

Maybe Dave had washed his hands?

_Right…_

Maybe Kurt had grabbed a dry-erase marker instead of the permanent one he was grabbing for. (He'd been a little distracted by the still semi-naked, and clearly…um, _happy-about-it_, Dave Karofsky, with whom he'd just, rather energetically, and yes, rather _passionately_ (bells and fireworks, anyone?) _just sucked face_…

Kurt squirmed on the padded window seat.

How could he have read the signals that wrong? Hadn't the big jerk (he was a 'big jerk' again now that he hadn't called Kurt in three days…) called _him _back to ask for his phone number so he _could _call Kurt? Maybe something had happened to his phone? Maybe a relative had died or he'd fallen and broken a bone or failed a civics test and his parents had taken away his cell phone privileges?

And then Kurt physically kicked himself; he was sounding like one of the lovesick women in "He's Just Not That Into You," a movie he had thought stupid, aside from yummy Justin Long and yummier Bradley Cooper, but that was starting to make a sick sort of sense.

These were the things (wo)men told themselves when they didn't want to admit that the guy they'd been out with once and who they had been crushing on, was, well, _just not that into them._

_Crap…_

_~tbc…_


End file.
